


Black & White

by Lullabyes



Category: Blood+ (Anime & Manga), blood plus
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Italy, Mild Humor, Multi, Post-War, Threesome - F/M/M, Vampires being vampires, Voyeurism, but also suffering, by which I mean, snarky inner monologues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29531436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lullabyes/pseuds/Lullabyes
Summary: "I need both of you with me. My family. My touchstones." SayaxHajixSolomon. A pas de trois performed in three parts.
Relationships: Hagi/Otonashi Saya, Solomon Goldsmith/Otonashi Saya
Comments: 15
Kudos: 16





	Black & White

**Author's Note:**

> Me again. Because what other fandom would have me?
> 
> I'm not sure how I feel about this story, beyond my intense itch to just write it. The characters don't behave particularly well. The opposite: the fic is chock-full of general misbehavior. And a slew of other dramatics, because, well, vampires. Gotta love 'em.
> 
> On the plus side (?), there is smut. A fair bit of it, so avert thine eyes if you are underage or if it just ain't your thing. Certainly, I never anticipated that an angsty vampire thruple would be mine.
> 
> Reviews are much welcome!

**I.**

Moonlight slants through the blinds of the bedroom. It cuts ten glowing stripes across Saya's body, black and white. Her hair falls around her shoulders in staticky disarray. She wears a pink sheen of hastily-daubed lipstick. Nothing else, except a blush.

"Haji?" She doesn't waver, but her uncertainty needs no voice. "Are you sure?"

Haji nods. The truth is not in the gesture itself. It is in the length of his fully-dressed body reclining in the armchair. Shoes laced, cuffs shot, not a single crease on his shirt or tailcoat. Practically a statue, Rodin's Thinker in immaculate eveningwear.

Except the heat pouring off his skin rivals her own.

_How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame..._

Saya _does_ waver now, but holds his gaze. In the gloom, her eyes are prismatic red. Their color makes an anticipatory spike of adrenaline go through Haji. He has to struggle for steadiness, stillness, silence.

Three states that come naturally to him. Except—

His gaze pierces past Saya, to the third party.

Solomon's eyes, also red, match Haji's glare. They are half-lidded and lingering, yet the intent is more mockery than challenge.

"What's wrong, Haji?" he says. "Second thoughts already?"

Haji's teeth grate against a riposte. He says nothing.

Solomon, expecting as much, glides up behind Saya. Like Haji, he is fully-clothed: the dark suit he's favored since defecting as Saya's ally. Unlike Haji, the cut is contemporary, the fabric of costly dorsilk. Yet it covers nothing. The vitality of his body thrums beneath, a contrast to Haji's own self-willed bedrock.

Black and white.

Haji watches Solomon palm the line of Saya's shoulders down to her arms. Goosebumps bloom on her skin where he strokes it. Her body, enfolded by his, seems a small delicate blossom the way it never does when Haji holds her. With him, she is always a lodestar, a spill of molten gold in his hands. Her skin gleams like gold too, stretched over the smoothness of muscle and bone.

She is still as lovely as the day he'd met her, by the Zoo's fountain. But now, she is a lusher breed of it. Decades of the good life, on rich Italian soil, have seen to it. Made her sleek, and soft, and silky, like a plum ripening in the sun.

Despite his habitual impassivity, Haji's gaze softens. Taken as if by sweet trance by the light throwing itself off her collarbones. By the round pink-tipped breasts that he can never stop himself from adoring. By the strong curves of her belly and back, and the small hands and sturdy thighs and the dark tanglefloss of hair between them.

She is like the Madonnina drenched in Italian moonlight. She is like Delibes' _Flower Duet_ made flesh.

His desire, steeping and strengthening, blends with distaste at the idea of Solomon's hands on her. Or his mouth. Or any other part. Beyond sheer ignominy—it is pearls before swine.

Except there is nothing swinish in Solomon's grip. The hand on Saya's shoulder kneads affectionately, a mute reverence in its touch. The other traces languidly along her flank. Saya shivers. The caress is ten degrees past suggestive. But her eyes stay on Haji, unclouded despite the sweetening aromas of lust.

"Haji."

The question again, unvoiced. The moonlight falling through the blinds. The stripes across the room, black and white. And Haji wishes that possessiveness wouldn't complicate his consent. Wishes he did, and didn't, know what to expect—the variations of a much-loved act that are, tonight, devoid of his participation.

Ten decades ago, the scenario would be squalid. Worse—an _intrusion_. Endlessly indulgent to Saya's whims, here is where Haji would put his foot down. Solomon, a traitorous turncoat, didn't belong at Saya's side. He certainly didn't belong at the foot of Saya's bed, a venue of so many of hers and Haji's comings-together in the years past.

Except that is the point. Years have passed. From a thorn in Haji's side, Solomon has grown into an uneasy fixture of Haji's life. To call their closeness camaraderie would be a stretch. Their natures—Saturnine stoicism versus Venusian decadence—are an abrasive mismatch at the best of times.

But they _tolerate_ each other. For Saya's sake if nothing else.

They have to. The war ended centuries ago. In that time, Saya's family have succumbed to human failings: illness, accidents, old age. Diva's daughters have flown the nest, pairing with Chevaliers and hatching little Queens of their own. Saya dotes on each of them. But her disconnection is unavoidable.

It's as if the war has stained her psyche with an unfamiliar mark. Like bars in a prison cell, Haji sometimes thinks of it. Black and white.

She still walks and talks like Saya. The ordinary Saya—or her carbon copy. But she can't seem to sustain lasting friendships—not like with the original team. She keeps a formal correspondence with Red Shield. She stays on polite terms with the latest Joel. She chitchats with neighbors, banters with strangers, coos and over kittens in baskets and infants in prams. But as the years elapse, her loneliness has sunken bone-deep. Her life cannot be juxtaposed with other people, ordinary people.

Her life isn't ordinary, or human.

Haji and Solomon have done their best to bridge the gap. To be Saya's anchors in good years, and her safe harbors in bad ones. They've welcomed her into a new life after each Long Sleep. Between them, they've ensured that she is installed in comfortable homes—whether at a tree-shaded villa by the French Riviera or a hilltop apartment in Naples or a picturesque cottage near Cyprus. Assisted by a rotating faction of Red Shield agents, they tend to her needs: food, clothes, travel, safety.

But beyond the basics, they've tried to make her _belong_.

 _Belong_ as she hasn't since her family passed away. Kai, David, Lewis, Dr. Julia, Mao, even Lulu... everyone who has succumbed to time's erasure.

While Saya remains as she is. Free to live. But never to forget.

Neither Haji nor Solomon talk about her isolation. It is a mutual red-zone, walled off from discussion. Their joy at her each Awakening is too immense for words. Why complicate it with worry?

Yet they do worry. Each in their own way.

It is what led to their uneasy armistice in the early days, when they arrived at the Miyagusuku tombs after the Met battle, to find Saya asleep. It is what kept them from spiraling into a clash of mutually-assured destruction during the thirty-year wait. It is what formed their loose alliance in the following years, as the world changed in ways both mundane and massive, even as their love for Saya remained a constant, a fierce and sacred longing.

After Saya's Awakening, they were both ready to press their suit. Ready to meet her as partners, or paramours, or whatever else she expected them to be.

Except the war had left Saya a storm-tossed shell. One glimpse of her, all brittle smiles and too-bright eyes, and Haji knew that romance would be a mistake. Not with memories of bloodshed always corkscrewing through her in a double-helix of guilt and grief. Not when she still stared vacantly into space at odd moments of the day, and thrashed awake from gut-wrenching dreams at night.

She needed to mend her wings, before she could fly towards the light. She needed space, and peace of mind. A place to call home.

So, by mutually-tacit agreement, Haji and Solomon had set their rivalry aside. Pooling their resources together, they found an attractive two-story villa near Tuscany. It was nestled within a cozy neighborhood nook, its red-painted gate hidden behind a green wall of foliage. Secluded, spacious. And best of all: a stone's throw from the sea, where the air danced with the songs of gulls, and the sun struck sapphire sparks off the waves in the mornings.

Here, they installed Saya as chatelaine _._ By unspoken dictum, the house was _her_ domain. Still, there were lines drawn and spaces apportioned, black and white. The downstairs half belonged to Haji + Saya. The upstairs half was for Solomon + Saya.

And Saya herself? Free to flit from one aerie to the other as she pleased.

The neighbors surely found it an odd arrangement. Two adult men, well-dressed and well-to-do, at the beck and call of a sixteen-year-old girl. A French couple with their adoptee? A Japanese heiress and her secretaries? The scenarios were limitless—and limitlessly sordid. But if tongues wagged, Haji never caught wind of it. The neighborhood was full of expatriates with stranger stories to tell.

Here, in the encroaching months, Haji watched Saya regain her balance. Watched her... _exhale_. During the war, she'd lived as a prisoner does. Mistrusting everyone in her orbit, refusing rest and rationing happiness, her gaze always shadowed by bars of rigid self-denial.

Now, she was free to step beyond those bars, and into the light.

In the early days, she couldn't get enough of basking in it. Sometimes curled with feline indolence in the hammock that swung between the cypress trees. Sometimes perched cross-legged in the little alcove by the bay window with a bowl of strawberries. Sometimes going through her _katas_ in the training room, her small body outlined in sunshine, her feet seeming to float across the ochre floorboards.

Here, day by day, Haji watched her re-learn to _live_. To gorge herself on sleep, and songs, and smiles, without disaster souring the aftertaste

And here, he watched Solomon engage Saya in an infuriating dance: two-thirds cosseting and one-third courtship.

Each week, bouquets of dizzyingly red roses were delivered to Saya's room. Her dresser was crowded with gold-gilt boxes of truffles, pastel whorls of meringues, trays of technicolor macarons. Often, Solomon whisked her off on shopping sprees, and they'd return laden with bags full of shimmery dresses straight out of _Vogue_ , and Saya's body redolent of freshly-spritzed perfumes, her mouth glossy with unfamiliar shades of lipstick. On weekends, Solomon took her for drives up to the coastline in his convertible. Riding in the backseat like a stone-faced sentry, Haji watched Saya soak in each newfound freedom: the warmth of the Mediterranean sun, the wind in her hair, her favorite pop songs on the radio. In the villa, Solomon designated one room as a music space. (For Saya _—_ Haji or his cello need not apply). Rare records by Maestros were stacked on the shelves: Beethoven, Bach, Mozart. In the center of the room, the sunken conversation pit was transformed into a dancefloor. Sometimes, as old Jazz classics lilted through the air, Haji chafed with jealousy at the sight of Saya's and Solomon's bodies swaying together in a waltz. Worse was when Solomon would whisper in her ear, and she'd give off a shy breathy giggle that made the pent-up resentment spread all through Haji's chest.

Resentment—and a peculiar brand of shame.

Granted, Solomon's indulgences held a flair of fairytale extravagance. But wasn't it what Saya deserved, after decades of suffering? And it was impossible not to catch that spark of _something_ between her and Solomon—sometimes a rosy fizzle, sometimes a red-hot blaze.

Impossible not to wonder if a wet blanket like Haji was simply dousing it out.

He tried not to dwell on it. Tried to counter Solomon's spoiling with structure. Each day, he established a rhythm in Saya's disjointed life. Sharing simple things with her. Good things. Playing cello for her in the late afternoons, until Saya dozed off on her favorite chaise, the sunlight from the half-open window catching in her eyelashes and the curve of her smiling mouth. Cooking breakfast together in the kitchen, his hands wielding blades with practiced skill, while the air wafted with the delicious aroma of strawberry crepes, and the sweetness of Saya's laughter. Decorating the livingroom together, their bodies darting around each other with the same effortless grace as in battlefields, while Saya imperiously guided him to place a framed painting here, a bookshelf there, a little to the left, no, the other left! Taking basketfuls of wine and cheese and ripe fruits for picnics to remote spots: the shadowy grove of oak trees in Itria Valley, the serene blue stretch of cornflowers in the fields of Castelluccio, the enchanted white basin of crystalline water near Marmore falls. And best of all, sitting by her bedside at night with a storybook, the sound of his gently-husked voice sailing Saya smoothly to the shores of sleep.

Her nightmares still sprang up from time to time. But rarer as the months melted by. In their absence, Haji was gratified by the sheen returning to Saya's eyes. Her smile held a degree more brightness, her stance a newfound steadiness.

Both he and Solomon noticed—separately and together.

For Haji, it was when he heard laughter upstairs one evening, and ascended to discover Saya on the sofa with Solomon, not sloppy drunk but definitely festive on Chianti, making a collage out of old photographs: sepia-toned ones from the Zoo, blurred polaroids of her schooldays in Okinawa, glossy print-outs from her latest Italian adventures. Tossing some in the trash pile on the pretext of _bad hair_. Smoothing her fingers over others, and cooing over the immaculate cut of Solomon's suit in this one, or how handsome Haji looked in that one.

For Solomon, it was when they went sailing together on his yacht (dubbed—shock of shocks— _Le Reine Rubis_ ), and Saya impulsively caught Haji's hand while music spangled from a restaurant at the harbor, swinging him up in a waltz. No trace of awkwardness between them, just the smoothness of age-old practice, her left hand draped across his neck, the other twined with his, while Solomon watched them wordlessly, his green eyes telegraphing, _I didn't know you two could dance like that._

Truth be told, neither did Haji. The war had caused its own subspecies of amnesia. But Saya's _joie de vivre_ made him remember.

Bit by bit, the boundaries in the villa blurred. The demarcations of black and white were washed away in a tide of daily routine. Even Haji, with his eagle's eye, couldn't trace its precise origins.

The first time all three of them sat down for breakfast together, with deviled eggs and heels of jam-slathered baguettes, their conversation flowing like the blood into their wineglasses. The first time they posed together for a portrait, an old-fashioned oil painting in the style of a Fragonard, Saya sitting like a rosy-cheeked _comtesse_ , lovely in her pastel-pink gown, her hair arranged in glossy ringlets around her shoulders, with Solomon and Haji standing tall and straight as spears on either side of her. The first time they swapped gifts, not for the holidays but on arbitrary impulse, Saya presenting Haji with a black obsidian blade curved like a vampire's fang, and Solomon with a set of silver cufflinks bearing Red Shield's insignia, while the two Chevaliers bestowed her with a necklace they had chosen together, ruby-red, Solomon sweeping Saya's hair up off her neck while Haji encircled it with the chain, their eyes drifting over her with shared admiration.

The years flowed smoothly, _la dolce vita_ in stripes of black and white. But the smoothness wasn't stasis. Beneath the surface, there were shifts. Sea-changes, each one rocking their three-mast sailboat. Breaking it down completely.

Haji wasn't sure when the signs began disclosing themselves. Something between him and Saya, that signaled a stronger undertow than old companionship. She didn't flutter around him like an antic butterfly, like she did with Solomon. Yet her gaze acquired a pindot fixation. When she spoke his name, the syllables held a richer texture. When she stared at him, it was like she was seeing him, not in black-and-white, but full technicolor.

More intriguing was the flirtation. With Solomon, she was the ingenue, all bashfulness and blushes. But with Haji, she held a straightforward façade, while her smoky eyes followed him everywhere. Sometimes, in the kitchen, she'd brush against him with deliberateness, while listing off everyday mundanities on their grocery list. Sometimes, on their strolls down the esplanade, her hand would find its way into the crook of his arm, like a tigress claiming territory. On movie nights, sitting across from Haji on the couch, she would stretch her pretty legs out, the warmth of her feet transmitting foreign messages from their perch on his thighs.

Her attentions were a disorienting thrill. Yet Haji dared not read into them. They could easily mean nothing. Nothing, except Saya finding a home in her own skin. A home, or perhaps an escape-hatch, like a bird loosed from its cage, flapping her wings and eager to take flight.

And take flight she did. One blue afternoon on their weekend picnic. Dashing towards the lip of the Marmore waterfalls, before diving smoothly in.

_"C'mon, Haji!"_

In horror-struck reflex, Haji flung himself after her. Caught her in freefall, right before she hit the roaring spume.

Afterwards, carrying her to the tranquil greenness of the forest, he dreaded the worst.

 _What_ was _that?_

A suicide attempt? A cry for help?

Except, the moment he laid her down in the soft moss, their bodies dappled by the sunlight through the stirring treetops, Saya opened her eyes, and smiled. Haji recognized her ploy a moment before she dragged his head down and kissed him. A kiss like a burning shock, a wild wish-fulfillment of the whole body. His mouth opened, but it was too full for anything except gasps.

They made love right there, as the sunlight ghosted off the treetops, and the sky bruised into late-evening lilac. A moment, strung through with many moments, that would stay forever beaded into Haji's sense-memory. Saya's skin, sweetly perfumed with sweat. The heat-shimmer in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, along her thighs. The perfect sounds unfolding from her lips, ascending notes of delight and desperation as Haji mouthed the tight rosettes of her nipples, bit at her navel, lapped his tongue in deep needy swathes at the slick heat between her legs. He stayed there, kissing her over and over, smearing the scent of her across his skin. Stayed until she was sobbing and bucking, begging him with her entire body. And when he finally went into her, her legs curled taut around his arms so she was laid utterly open to him, she _screamed_ , a hoarse helpless scream that rose over the trees, a scream that he took with a biting kiss, tasting blood between their teeth.

He'd wanted to be gentle, the first time. Wanted something full of finesse, or tendresse, or just plain politesse. Instead, it was like being transformed into a Chevalier with a gulp of her blood. Like an old surface—an old self—was sloughing off. And replacing its drab layers of black and white was a salvo of rainbow colors, sheer narcotic sensation.

Haji remembers being sunk fully into her, blissful wet heat closing around him. Remembers the sharpness of Saya's nails, and her teeth, and the softness everywhere he grabbed for a handhold; along her thighs, her hips and breasts, before he caught her face in both hands. Mouths trading kisses back and forth, kisses that matched the rhythm of their bodies, a needy dissonance that descended into a primal rut, deep and fast and perfect, Saya's cries hitching in sync with his, her eyes half-lidded and deep-red and dazedly saying _More, please, more_ and his own gaze communicating _Yes, yes, anything you want_ , and he could feel Saya's tremoring all through him, a tremoring that presaged an exquisite tension, each fast-twitch muscle seizing around him, claiming him utterly, and then she spent with sobbing spasms that doubled and redoubled as Haji drove frantically into her, his self-control splitting apart and his release spilling in white-hot pulses, an expulsion so total that it left him afterwards a cored-out husk, his whole body emptied of everything except the melody of Saya's pulse.

And beneath that, the discovery of something incognito. Immeasurable.

Pure happiness.

It was the cusp of nightfall when they returned home. Hand-in-hand, with leaves in their hair and grit on their clothes. But smiling, in a way that made their faces ache with the strangeness of it. Afterwards in bed, spooned against Saya with his face buried in her hair, Haji felt the imprint of her warmth like a tonic spreading through him. Softening spaces that had seized up from the coldness of the war, and centuries of self-doubt.

Their coupling—literal or metaphoric—didn't escape Solomon's notice. How could it, with Saya's pheromones floating in bright contrails through the air the next morning, or the visceral pull of her cries behind the bedroom door at night?

To his credit, the other Chevalier didn't lash out. Nor did he attempt a coup via arsenic or psychological subterfuge. But his green eyes acquired a cool patina. His smiles were charm itself, but tipped in bitter ice.

 _"Well, well,"_ he said to Haji over breakfast, his features rigid with resignation. _"It must be true what they say. Beware the quiet ones."_

On his part, Haji wasn't without conscience. He suggested that he and Saya travel the continents, an impromptu honeymoon to avoid the awkward close quarters in the villa. So they made flimsy excuses, packed their bags, and jetted off. Solomon bid them a frigidly polite farewell. But Haji knew that their unspoken truce was at an end.

Decades ago, the errant Chevalier had made up his mind to have Saya. Betrayed his Queen for her. Killed his blood-brothers for her. Stewed and seethed and schemed for her.

One day, he'd blitz his way into Saya's bed.

Haji couldn't leave fast enough.

Years passed, and he didn't dwell on Solomon. How could he? His own life was too enchantingly rich. In Saya's arms, introspection was an impossibility. There was only the submergence into pleasure—both the profound and prosaic. Hours spent learning what he never wanted to forget. An entire glossary of Saya's kisses, and her pretty gasps, and the fierce tug of her fingers in his hair. A color spectrum of dizzying emotions—affection for her little feet on the dashboard of their rented cars on road trips, her nails painted gumball-pink; gratitude for her melted-chocolate moue as she pored over menus in old cafés, butterscotch rays of sunlight falling on her face through the window; contentment for the cozy weight of her in his lap in silver-lit cinemas, her head lolling trustingly against his shoulder and her lazy prattle tickling at his ears.

It was the essence of purest joy, too rare to even be bottled-up in memory. Not a relapse to the simpler times of their childhood, but something unexpectedly novel. Utterly perfect.

It _was_ perfect. For both of them.

There were times, though, when Haji wondered. About Saya. About Solomon. She didn't mention him in daily conversation. But sometimes, tipsy with wine at two a.m, she'd let his name slip. Wondering how he was doing, whether he was lonely. _We should check up on him._ Haji would dutifully go through the motions. But it was just that. _Duty_. There was no love lost between him and Solomon. Never had been, despite the love they shared for the world's most loveable girl.

Except Solomon would always be there. In Saya's life, in her heart. How could he not? Saya was such a cynosure; both he and Haji were locked in her orbit. They were both uplifted by her presence, enraptured by their connection to her, three creatures outside of time.

A _pas de trois_ that would last as long as Saya did.

They both needed her. And sometimes…Haji wondered if Saya needed them too. Not as Chevaliers, but as two halves of a whole.

He remembered one afternoon when he'd returned home to Saya talking to Solomon on the phone. She was standing by the window, a mug of steaming cocoa nestled in both her palms. The phone was cinched between her ear and shoulder. Haji could discern the harmonic buzz of Solomon's voice, and decipher half the words. Saya was laughing at a story he was sharing.

When she spotted Haji, she didn't look furtive. The opposite: she mouthed him a full-lipped kiss. Haji smiled, but he couldn't stop observing her out of the corner of his eye. In that moment, she didn't look like _his_ Saya. She looked like a stranger, and Haji's perspective was that of a stranger. Not on the outside looking in. More like seeing her through a different lens. He saw an adorable girl, giggling into the phone. Happy, and healed, and home. One hand drumming its fingertips against the ceramic mug. The light from the window catching in fairy-colored fractals off the necklace he and Solomon had gifted her.

In that moment, she was Saya. Purely Saya, the way she wasn't with him, or Solomon. She belonged to herself. A Saya who didn't dwell within the delineations of black and white, but whose life was multicolored, multilayered.

She could have it all. Anything—or everything.

She just hadn't awoken yet to the knowledge.

* * *

**II.**

It was summertime when crisis erupted.

News reached of Chiropterans spawning in different ends of the globe. One nest was discovered in Burundi. Another was spawning at a border-village in Myanmar. Saya's nieces had flown to the former. Solomon was summoned to aid Red Shield with the latter. But, the situation quickly intensified to epic scales. All hands were needed on deck.

There was no time for Saya and Haji to reconnoiter. He returned home to find the villa empty, all the lights off. In the kitchen, a note on the counter with his name on it.

_Emergency declared in Myanmar. Sixty Red Shield ops killed. Solomon needed me, so I flew out. The girls will meet you in Burundi._

_Please take care._

_S._

The message, just a footnote in a thick textbook of warfare, shouldn't have troubled Haji. Yet the phrasing— _Solomon needed me, so I flew out_ —sunk into him like a skewer, staining everything blood-red. A stain he tried to erase, like a good Chevalier. Like a soldier conscripted into service. Which is what they were—him and Saya, both.

Without delay, he flew out to meet Saya's nieces. Soon, they were immersed in battle. Yet those words— _needed me_ —stayed lodged inside him. Sending a throb of agony each time he prodded them with his mind's fingers.

He and the twins were an effective team. Within a month, thanks to their efforts, the crisis in Burundi stabilized. But in Myanmar, the catastrophe raged on. Haji tried to reach Saya. But there were text glitches. Scrambled lines during calls. The government was jamming all communication.

Making up his mind, Haji bid the twins farewell, and flew to Saya. Not by plane, but on wings of his own.

The journey was hazardous. No-fly zones and torrential rain made it worse. Yet it was what Haji needed. In the midst of his anxieties about Saya, there was also the intense longing to be with her. To imagine that once she was in his arms, everything would be well.

Or so he believed.

It was late evening when he descended, bone-weary but unhurt. Red Shield had set up accommodations on the outskirts of Yangon. A low-lying colonial manor, in a state of disrepair. A greenish-grey mist hung everywhere. Mosquitos buzzed around the veranda's old-fashioned lanterns. When Haji found Saya, she was in the kitchen. Barefoot, and rumple-haired, her skin glowing anemically in the fluorescent lights. She wore two oversized shirts: black and white.

The inside was Haji's. The outside was Solomon's.

Haji recognized the initials— _S. G_ —on the turned-up collar. He stood staring at them, while Saya had her back to him. She was leaning over the kitchen sink, the running water an imperfect white-noise to muffle the sounds of her crying. Crying over what? Haji never knew. He couldn't ask, because his senses were too obscenely assaulted by other details. Not just the shirt, but the pink hickeys mottling her neck. And the remnants of Solomon's scent, salty and visceral, on her skin.

He must have made a noise. Saya spun around, the corners of her eyes trickling tears. At the sight of him, she blanched.

" _Haji_."

His name on her lips, like a penny dropped into an empty wishing well. Like a star fallen into a black hole, where all time collapsed, and love and life were meaningless. Haji's eyes met hers, and something passed through him, a fierce dark rush of the purest cold imaginable. A sensation he'd felt before, on the edge of death.

He didn't stay. He felt his whole body swivel, his feet carrying him outside. Away from Saya, and the anguish of her physical betrayal, even as she ran after him, called his name, her tears and pleas telegraphing a bone-deep regret.

He couldn't make himself see that. The betrayal itself was too massive. He couldn't move beyond it, except to question what it meant, that she'd succumbed to Solomon within weeks of his absence. As if he, Haji, were an extraneity. Maybe she didn't even love him. Maybe Solomon was truly the one for her. _Needed me. I flew out._

Certainly, he could make her happier than Haji. Give her the lifetime of laughter and lightness that she deserved, even while trampling Haji's own life underfoot.

Solomon could give her _children_. The trump card he'd always wield over Haji's long-standing loyalty.

They didn't talk about that. Not during the eventual confrontation between him and Solomon. Their bodies colliding together like meteors, slamming off hillsides and crashing through forests, leaving a trail of smoking debris and bloodsplatters in their wake. Despair gave Haji a renewed strength. But Solomon held his own, his stubbornness a hard shield over a wellspring of hope. Hope that Saya would finally be his. Hope that they'd have the life he always dreamed, all fairytales and frivolity, with no shadows of the war in sight.

It was hours before Red Shield deployed troops to contain the damage. By then, both Haji and Solomon were slabs of meat. Sacrifices fit for immolation. Haji would have welcomed it. Instead he was wheeled to a hospital, and hooked to a supply of blood-packs. His memories of the convalescence were a blur. For weeks he knew nothing but thirst, and heaviness, and silence. And sometimes a glint of light, like a keyhole in the dark. Through that keyhole, he saw Saya, her hair dangling down to brush his jawline, tears dripping from her eyes to splatter his face.

Then she was gone. His whole body throbbed with the absence of her. But he couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

Perhaps this was Hell. A fitting destination after decades in borrowed Heaven.

Then one day—or night?—the bubble was pierced by the sharp smell of hot blood. Saya's blood. Someone grabbed a fistful of his hospital shirt, hauling him upright to put a cup to his lips.

"Drink this."

It wasn't Saya. It was Solomon.

Haji recognized the melodic timbre of his voice. The ache of his rough handling was subsumed by rage. But he couldn't find the words to speak. Blood poured down his throat, dripping from the corners of his mouth. He swallowed, coughed, and swallowed some more.

The taste was ambrosial. Electrifying. Within moments, the haze lifted. Sensation trickled back into his limbs.

When the cup was empty, Solomon let him go. Haji slumped flat on his back. His eyes fluttered open: the room wavered. He saw a bright coin of light from the overhead lamp. Three Solomons spun before his eyes, before coalescing into one.

The Chevalier wasn't in gray hospital pajamas like Haji. He was in his usual black suit, creased from travel. Like Haji, he was marked up from their battle, pale skin like the cratered surface of a lunar snapshot. A scar ran across his skull from cheekbone to temple. Red and ribbed and strange-textured—it reminded Haji of a skinned serpent. Later, Haji would find a similar mark scrawled across his own forehead. He would have to grow his hair out until it faded.

Pathetic. The fight had reduced them both to wreckage. Yet it hadn't solved a thing. It hadn't even felt satisfying. Not when Saya was—

_Saya._

Haji jerked his gaze away from Solomon. In a rough voice, he said, "Where—?"

"Hm?"

"Where is she?"

Solomon made an impatient noise. But a sad jitter sat beneath. "Why do you think I flew out to see you?"

Haji frowned, and glanced at Solomon. Beneath the scars, Solomon's expression held none of its photogenic gloss. The opposite: he seemed completely cored-out. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks glittering with stubble. A tremor ran down his arms to his fingertips.

"She's in Italy," Solomon said. "We got the situation in Myanmar under control. She flew back a week ago. I awoke before you, and went after her. But when I tried to see her, she refused."

Haji stared, his thoughts a blank horizon where darkness were massing.

Solomon sighed, and repeated, "She won't see me. Won't see _anyone_. Not even her nieces. They're staying at a hotel near the villa. Making sure she doesn't do anything rash. They're the ones who suggested feeding you Saya's blood, did you know? They said it might rouse you."

Haji didn't know. But why would he? Comatose etc. Except, apparently, he never woke up, because he was still trapped in some stygian dreamscape with Solomon.

Solomon who looked as torn-apart as Haji felt. Radiating abject waves of misery.

"I know you're angry," he muttered. "You think she betrayed you."

Haji said nothing. He couldn't even muster the effort for hatred. Not when his chest felt like it was caving in.

"It was a mistake, Haji. Hers, if not mine. I knew what I was doing. You of all people know how I feel about her. How much I—" He stopped mid-sentence, as if unable to quite draw enough breath. Then, "It doesn't matter. The moment we were finished and she limped out of bed—"

" _Don't_ ," Haji growled, and he wasn't sure if it was a threat or plea.

Solomon barreled on without mercy. "The moment it was done, she broke down completely. It was terrible. She just went pale and mute and teary-eyed. Locked herself in the bathroom, and no matter how much I pleaded, she wouldn't come out. She just kept saying your name." Bitterness curdled his expression. "She still won't see me. I wish she would, except it's _your_ absence she's pining over."

"She certainly had no qualms," Haji cut in without inflection, "taking up with you in my _absence_."

Solomon's eyes narrowed. "We can't all be saints, Haji. Always up on our high horses, with just our nosebleeds for sustenance. She made a mistake. God knows, she is entitled to a few."

Haji shook his head. "Not like this." _Not Saya._ "She wouldn't choose you unless she _wanted_ you."

"She does want me. Like a fat girl wants cake."

"What—?"

"She wants me. But she needs _you_. She'd cry if anything happened to me. She'd go unhinged if anything befell _you_." Seeing Haji's incredulous expression, he blazed. "Oh, come now! Must I spell it out? Back in Italy, she could've had her cake and ate it too. Had you in her bed, and me besides. Except her damned scruples got in the way. _You_ got in the way. That's the hold you have on her, Haji. Even when she ought not to be expected to choose, she does. She chooses _you_. She will _always_ choose you."

The words shot through the room before making blistering impact with Haji's skull. He grimaced. "Me?"

" _Évidemment_." Solomon's hands twitched at his sides: either stymied hostility or helplessness. He dragged them through his unruly hair. "I would cut out my tongue before even saying it. Except you need to hear it. Do you truly believe Saya would have left the villa, if she didn't feel beholden? To you, and the old bonds you shared?"

"Old bonds?" Rage lent Haji such a fierce exoskeleton that he lurched upright. "You think I _forced_ her to go with me?"

"Forced? No. But you will always be Saya's template for stability. No matter how I might engage her interest. She would never dare to try anything new. Not without you in the background, standing guard like her damned watchdog."

The rage reshaped itself into something else, unrecognized, unwelcome. Haji's voice grew deathly soft. "What are you suggesting? That if I agreed to it, she would have you, and me, and—?"

"She is a Chiropteran Queen. Like her sister. Who, need I add, kept several Chevaliers at her beck and call."

"All of them lunatics and cutthroats."

Solomon shook his head. "We were unhappy, because Diva was unhappy. Because none of us could give her children." His gaze flitted contemptuously to Haji. "I _can_ give Saya children. Except she won't entertain the notion. Not while _you_ are in her life. Not while you've locked her into the same box of suffocating sainthood as yourself."

Haji's own gaze, cold and hooded, descended to subzero. "You dare to blame me for—?"

"Not blame. Not exactly. But you need a splash of cold water to the face. Saya isn't human. Despite how attached she is to humanity, she'll need more than that, if she's going to be whole."

"Whole with _you_?"

"No. With _you_. Because you are the lynchpin. Otherwise everything in her life will spiral. As she demonstrated so amply in Myanmar." Solomon sighed. "A pity, because that night was spectacular. _She_ was specular. Nothing in my life was ever so wonderful as..." He stopped, and seemed to struggle for composure. More quietly, "I despise the idea of her in your arms. But I'd rather see her stable, than falling apart."

Shock replaced Haji's hostility. He stared at Solomon. Realized, that beneath his cavalier cruelty was something closer to despair. He'd hoped, Haji realized, to separate Saya from him. First through charm, then cajolery, then seduction. Except it hadn't worked. Had, apparently, sent Saya into a tailspin of misgiving so massive that she'd sequestered herself from everyone. Because she was terrified of a world no longer delineated by absolutes, a gray zone without rights and wrongs.

Without black and white.

Except what was the solution? Haji could pretend that Saya's wishes were paramount. That her happiness mattered more than anything else. Yet the idea that he might not be enough for her was agonizing. The knowledge that Solomon wasn't, either, brought little comfort. If neither of their love, separately, could restore her to completeness, then—

"Go to her, Haji," Solomon said coldly. "And whatever Saya chooses, so be it."

Haji said nothing. The sensation in his chest was too much: a fast-spreading ichor. It felt like a cancer of the entire psyche, like something inside him would blacken and bloat and burst apart.

" _Go_ ," Solomon repeated. "Because if you won't, I will do everything in my power to—"

"Take her?" Haji cut in. "You couldn't if you tried."

"Correction. I _could_ try. Except she isn't mine to take." He met Haji's stare, and smiled. A smile of deceptive serenity, but with sinister shadows crawling beneath. "But take your head off your shoulders? I can certainly try _that_."

Haji was gripped by an overpowering urge to kick Solomon through the wall. Instead, with an agony of effort, he hauled himself to his feet. Solomon watched, but made no move to stop him. Made no remark, when Haji dragged himself, step by step, toward the door. But when his hand closed on the knob, Haji hesitated. What if this was futile? What if the entire debacle was Saya's way of bidding him farewell? What if he journeyed to Italy, only to be refused at the door?

On these grim scenarios, Haji wavered.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Solomon's profile. Dull-eyed and pensive, his shoulders in a resigned slump. The pose of dejected love was profoundly irritating—yet it roused Haji's limited supply of sympathy.

That could so easily be him. Especially if Saya—

_You don't know that._

_Not until you ask her._

Urgency leapt through Haji's bones. Wordlessly, he hurried out.

His reunion with Saya wasn't truly a reunion. More like cresting the surface of a black wave, and into sweet oxygen. Freezing, suffocating, dying—then living again. He remembered walking through the villa, opened easily with his set of keys. Remembered the preternatural silence of the rooms, even as he sensed the dynamic throb of Saya's presence.

"Saya." It was a rasping whisper. He raised his voice. "Saya!"

From somewhere upstairs, there was a gasp, and a _thud_. Then he saw her descend; her stockinged feet skidding across the carpeted staircase. At the last step, she froze. Her small body, bundled in an oversized housecoat, quivered. Her eyes were wet-smudged, with tears spiderwebbing her cheeks. Haji was the one who had traveled for hours to reach her. Yet Saya looked like she'd been locked in a box and flung from continent to continent. Unsure of herself, of him, of the ground beneath her feet.

Haji took a step closer, and stretched out his hands. "Saya."

With a high broken cry, she flung herself at him. They collided almost mid-air, his arms passing around her in rapturous reflex, swooping her up so her feet skimmed across the floor. Her face was buried in his neck, and she was weeping, without shame or restraint, her tears soaking his skin. Her whole body felt burning-hot in his embrace, impossibly light yet impossibly heavy too. Her heart thudded, a melody so simple and beautiful that for a long time Haji couldn't find his voice. He just squeezed her in crushingly tight, his face buried in her hair.

Not even after her Long Sleeps had he felt this cascading gratitude. As if she was narrowly lost, then found.

Against his chest, Saya's sobs vibrated with half-formed words. Apologies, prayers, pleas. How she'd made so many mistakes. How she'd hurt him, hurt Solomon, ruined everything. Haji tried to soothe her. But his throat was a knot. He was too overwhelmed by her nearness, a nearness like a miracle. And within that nearness: a question-mark. Because she was still _Saya_ , despite bedding Solomon. Despite what the act ought to presage, according to a Queen and the enemy Chevalier's biology.

Haji wondered if he was mistaken. Except his senses were unfailing. In the past, he'd always known when Diva's twins were pregnant.

_So why isn't Saya...?_

He must have spoken the question aloud. Saya drew back a little, tears sliding down her blotched cheeks. Her voice was tremulous with the need to reassure. "We—we were careful. I promise."

"Careful?"

"We used—protection. Each time."

Haji steeled himself with a nearly imperceptible wince. _Each time._ Which meant it happened more than once in Myanmar. Yet it felt somehow like a garbled code. Like she wasn't bedecking him with a cuckold's horns so much as trying to impart—

"I wanted him. I-I'm sorry it happened, but I did want him." Saya drew in a hiccupping sob, her mouth crumpling. "Except I think—I wanted the idea of a family more. All three of us."

"You—what?"

"I'm sorry. I just—couldn't stand it. The idea of him alone. Of us alone."

"Alone?" Haji shook his head. Usually he was good at chasing the white rabbits of illogic through Saya's psyche. But this eluded him completely. "Saya, when were we alone? All those years as a couple, did you truly feel—?"

"Yes. And no." She met his eyes. Hers were swollen and bleary, but full of solemnity. "I was happy. So happy, when I was with you. But I also felt... I don't know. Like we were in exile."

"Exile?"

"Hiding off in one corner of the world. And Solomon in the other. Afraid to rub our lives in each other's faces."

"Saya—"

She dropped her gaze as if ashamed. Her voice was nearly beseeching.

"I didn't go to bed with Solomon to spite you. I swear. But I—I wanted more. I wanted it to be like in the early days. All three of us looking after each other. I felt happiest then. Complete."

Haji stared at her. This was a disconcerting revelation.

"I'm sorry! I know it's not what you want to hear. But why does it have to be like this? Why do I have to choose between being loved one way or another? Why do I always have to be careful not to love either of you too much, when I need you both in my life?"

"Saya, I…"

_I don't know. What to say. What to think._

He hadn't considered that Saya was sick of him and Solomon vying for her affections. Hadn't considered the untenable position it put her in, as a peacekeeper, or a bridge ready to break in half. He should have known. Yet somehow, his and Solomon's rivalry had eclipsed his usual perceptiveness. A rivalry that became almost as enormous as Saya herself.

He winced—chagrin, consternation. Tried to apologize, or at least explain. But Saya shook her head, her small fingers touching his lips. "It's not your fault, Haji. It's mine. I should have—should have made everything clear from the start. To both of you."

_She could've had her cake and ate it too._

Haji understood.

Understood, but couldn't quite comprehend the dimensions of her confession. It felt like a colossus on his chest, ready to crush him. She loved him. She loved Solomon. But what she truly _needed_ was...

"Haji, please don't be angry with me. I'm sorry for everything that's happened. But... I don't want Solomon gone. I don't want you gone. I need both of you with me. My family. My touchstones."

"Because we love you."

"Yes." She shivered, and burrowed her face against his neck. "But also because I love _you_. Both of you. It doesn't mean we have to be together all the time. But sometimes, I'd like our alone time to include Solomon. Or vice versa. Just like some nights I'd like you to myself. To talk with you. Sleep with you. Can it be like that? Like when we shared the villa together?"

"Is that—" Trying to find the words was like struggling against a noose. "—is that what you want?"

"Yes, but—" Her eyes flicked down, then up. Anxiety at war with earnestness. "Not if it's something _you_ don't. If you hate the idea, we never have to mention it. I'll never bring it up again. But the war is over. All three of us are here. Together, and yet... not. I just want—" Her lip trembled, and Haji couldn't help but touch it with his thumb. "I want us to not be apart. To be a family. A _real_ family. Like—"

 _Like what?_ Haji wondered, his mind a flat-line. A family like Diva, with her dysfunctional coterie of Chevaliers? A family like the Miyagusukus, only with the sexual dalliances? Misgiving flowered through him, pricked by thorns of envy, a wild-growing tangle he fought to conceal from her.

And yet...

He thought of Solomon's dejected slump in the hospital room. Thought of his own sense of unmooring, at the idea of Saya's abandonment. He thought of Saya at the colonial manor in Myanmar, swathed in his and Solomon's shirts, black and white. Thought of their months together in the villa, in the music room, in the convertible, in the yacht. He thought that Saya's heart was neither fickle nor foolishly divided, but a tinderbox without black-and-white demarcations. A space that recognized their connection, a blood-bond that never wavered over the stretches of time, even as they united and separated and reunited again. Her, Haji, and Solomon.

An alignment that, a century ago, would've been utterly unsupportable.

And yet...

* * *

**III.**

And yet, it has presaged tonight's _mise en scène._

Haji watches Solomon stroke both his hands up Saya's waist. Cradling the shape of her hips, then her ribs, his palms easing beneath her breasts. He hears the tiny catch in Saya's breath. Her eyelids have slid to half-mast, a facsimile of drunkenness. It's an expression Haji has seen countless times. But always in private, without the wedge of an interloper.

The interloper in question glints a red glance at him over the dark crown of Saya's head. Then his lips are close to Saya's pinkened ear. "Shall we move this to bed?"

"I—" Saya begins, then shivers as Solomon noses the line of her neck, mouthing the gleaming point of one shoulder.

 _Theater_ , Haji thinks snidely. Trying to make him into the passive cuckold, the unwanted Peeping Tom. Except that isn't true. He may not be the master of ceremonies, but he is as much a participant as Solomon.

The force of Saya's gaze compels him to be.

"Yes," she breathes, and her body sways dizzily, before she finds her center. "Yes, but—"

"But?"

"One thing first."

She slithers out of Solomon's arms and into Haji's. His breath gusts in his chest, but the shock is a delicious one. Like the warm rub of her nakedness against his cool suit. Like the allure of her pheromones scenting the air. She catches his face in her small palms. Kisses him sweetly, her bottom lip fitted against his top one, her hair falling in a whispery tangle around their faces.

Haji falls into the kiss by reflex. And it truly is like falling: the inevitable collapse of his barriers, the thrilling plunge into cherry-mouthed bliss. Each touch tells its story so eloquently. The heavy circle of his arms around her: _I love you_. The Chiropteran claw cupping the back of Saya's skull, hair rustling in its grip: _I'm fine with this._ The sweet commas of her tongue against his, punctuated by shared gasps. _As long as you are._

In the background, Solomon clears his throat. "Planning to return her, Haji?"

 _No,_ Haji thinks, and smiles against Saya's lips as her body melts the last few inches into the couch. Her arousal is all for him now. He can pin it in the air like a lepidopterist pinning the five points of a butterfly to the parchment of his memory. Her skin grows hot, and seems to fizz as the kiss deepens. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders with a feverish unsteadiness. Tiny sounds are strung through her breaths like beads through a wavering string.

He could kiss her like this all night. Longer. But Saya breaks off on a giggle, breathy and apologetic.

"Okay." She backs away, her eyes on his. "Okay."

Haji nods.

It is the final puzzle piece. The seal on an age-old negotiation between eyes and bodies.

Then Saya's gaze detaches, and she swivels on her heel, a graceful half-turn. Solomon meets it with dancer's languor, his right coming around her waist, palm resting across the small of her back. The left palm cups her chin. He lifts it, and Saya's eyes flutter shut a heartbeat before he kisses her.

A strikingly different kiss from the one she and Haji shared. A kiss that isn't like talking, but like tasting. Like hunger. He devours her mouth—not sloppily, but with the refinement of a man relishing his platter. Sampling every sound that unfurls from Saya's throat. Handling the span of her body like the sweetest morsel at the table.

In his arms, Saya sways, and presses closer. Haji watches them perform an unhurried kissing-waltz towards the bed. Watches Solomon slump across the mattress, taking Saya with him, so she is sprawled across his chest. His fingers comb savoringly through her hair. Breaking the kiss, he mouths her ear to her neck, her neck to her shoulder, with the same savoring slowness.

Strange. Haji was expecting a firestorm of passion. Solomon is always so hot for Saya. Always slinking into her space like a cat. Preening for her admiration, pawing for her attention.

 _More theater._ He's just making a show of it, frame by frame. Trying to rub his triumph (temporary) in Haji's face.

Except Solomon's attention isn't on Haji. How could it be? Saya has subsided meltingly across the sheets. The shadowed blinds are no longer a pattern but a pathway, leading both Haji's and Solomon's eyes directly home to her body.

Black and white.

Solomon wastes no time in rolling on top. He cradles Saya's head in his wide-spread fingers, his mouth seeking the spots where she is sensitive. Spots that Haji has memorized in a kaleidoscopic rolodex. The plush pillow of her lower-lip. The fine curve defining her jaw. The delicate crook of her neck. The sweet hollow between her breasts, and their undersides, and the tight nipples that are like silky little rosebuds against his teeth and tongue.

Solomon finds each spot, with the ease of expertise. Finds them, and makes Saya sing, soft gaspy trills that are nothing like the full-throated sonnets Haji coaxes from her. The difference is in his touch: indulgent where Haji's is intense, melting where Haji's is molten.

It is devotion, but sheathed in starvation. Like nothing except every inch of Saya will satisfy him.

A feeling Haji knows too well.

The shadows from the blinds pool around their breathing bodies like water. The only other sound is Solomon's voice, pouring honeyed across Saya skin. Worshiping her in fervent sighs and half-syllables, each _angel, sweetheart, darling,_ affecting her like a magic key inside a lock, so she gives over to him without the barest lick of resistance. Her lovely thighs could be liquid, the way they spread.

Haji watches, his body trying to come up off the couch. A response that is purely Pavlovian. The air is sweetly scented with Saya's arousal: sugar and salt and something tart, too, that always reminds him of plums.

His fingers twitch; his mouth waters. Except tonight isn't about him. Nor Solomon, really—although he's certainly drawn the longest straw.

His fingertips stray down the length of Saya's body. Stroke gently through the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs, before dabbling into the moisture between them. Saya gasps and shudders in place. But her hips are a twisting flirt more than an imperious grind. She isn't as wet as she usually gets. Nerves, Haji suspects.

Solomon notices too. His tone is chidingly warm. "Come now, angel. We can do better than that."

Saya lets off a high-pitched cry as he cheeks his way down her belly. Spreading her thighs wider, he nestles himself between them. Haji watches his head, topped with phosphorescently bright curls, descend like a felled sunflower. He kisses Saya's thighs. Bites the smooth tendons beneath the skin, so her muscles jerk and she whimpers. Then his mouth traces along her mons, lipping past the downy hairs towards that hot little cleft of bare wet flesh.

Saya gasps in the darkness, again and then again, tiny catches of breath that come out plaintively. Like Solomon is either feeling his way around—or playing with her. Her hips stir, arms twitching across the coverlet. Haji keeps expecting her to catch at Solomon's hands, their palms meeting and fingers interlocking.

It is what she does with Haji, a needful anchoring as he winds her to the edge, lapping at her in a relentless rhythm until she is sobbing her gorgeous sobs and mesmerizing him with the frenzied twist of her body and the tossing of her head and the tears in her shining pleading eyes. Making him throb with the sight of her, with the strain of waiting, a martyrdom of patience that is its own pleasure. And better still, when the martyrdom becomes madness, his mouth dragging itself free from between the clench of her thighs, Saya's whole body crying _Yes, oh, please,_ on a helpless spasm, and then on a real, piercing cry as he covers her, fills her, feels her clench around him with a desperation like drowning, arms and legs folding around his body, her hips churning beneath his weight, working herself on him, her cries going high-strung and overwrought and then nearly incoherent as Haji hits her at the right angle, her wild movements caught in a sudden freeze, her whole body an arch, nails dragging in hot-red sparks and the expression on her face, electrified, blissed-out. Perfect.

The memory brings Haji fully erect, with a suddenness that makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

The sight of Saya and Solomon doesn't help. Her skin has gone red-flushed, beaded with impatience. Her breaths saw frantically through the air, breaking the quiet, then sparking into moans like a series of matches struck. Haji can't see exactly what Solomon is doing. But he can _hear_ it: the slicked sounds of his mouth, and Saya's free-flowing excitement.

She'd started out diffident as a schoolgirl. But now she is as Haji recognizes her. Greedy and gorging, bold as brass. A tigress.

Clutching at the bedsheets, she _wails_ , the sound reverberating through the room—and straight up Haji's spine. The line of his jaw tautens, but he isn't the one who groans in answer. It is Solomon, hoarse and desperate, his palms curling around her kneecaps, holding her down as she thrashes and twists, his tongue lapping her with no more playfulness, only a ravenous determination, working her over until the climax leaps out of her, the bed jolting with the force of it, her whole body jackknifing as her nails drag through Solomon's scalp, leave furrows of bright-pink that scent the air with blood.

Solomon muffles a pained _Ah!_ Haji lets off a quiet hum of laughter in response. _Could have warned you._

His mean-spiritedness doesn't last. He is too entranced by Saya: her body melted into a pink puddle across the damp sheets, her expression dazed, drowsy, dreamy-eyed. Her right hand is still tangled in the bedclothes, the other clutching Solomon's nape in a white-knuckled grip. She loosens her hold, and fans out her fingers.

Haji watches her drag Solomon closer by a fistful of bunched curls. Obligingly, he climbs up the bed, coming up over her. Murmurs something about her claws, half-complaining, half-cajoling, before bringing his mouth to hers. Lazy kisses, laughter, their heads butting together like two felines tussling.

Haji listens to Saya's slowing breaths, her beating heart. Thinks he could be content with nothing else. Just that sound, and the satisfaction it signals.

Except the night is far from done.

Saya's storm has subsided, but Solomon is breathing heavily, a flush clinging to his cheekbones. Through the dark material of his suit, Haji can see the sharp outline of his erection. Misgiving makes a knot of his throat. Makes the hairs rise on his arms with chill gooseflesh, although the room is sweltering in temperatures quite the opposite.

He watches Solomon steady himself above Saya on one arm, while she plucks at his clothes. Haji listens to the rustle of fabric sliding and shedding. Hears the click of Solomon's expensive belt buckle against the buttons of his trousers, and Saya's little _Eeep_! when the cold metal strikes her warm belly.

"Sorry," Solomon murmurs, and kisses her ear.

"Mmm," Saya says muzzily.

It is more coherent conversation than Haji has ever gotten from her. He can't decide whether that is a plus or a minus. Can't move, or think, or _breathe_ , as Saya's small unmanicured hands pull Solomon's erection from his trousers. The anatomy is of a piece with the rest of him: smooth and well-groomed and moderately endowed.

Haji's mind makes reflexive comparisons. Yet they are rooted less in competition than curiosity. The way Saya handles him is so different. Not a possessive grip, but an exploratory one, the fan of her fingers at once shy and sultry. Like her smile, and the stirring of her body beneath his. The ingenue again, all undone by anticipation. Yet Haji can see traces of the tigress in her red-glinting eyes. Boldness and innocence all braiding together, black and white.

" _Nails_." Solomon's breath rattles painfully in his chest. "Angel, we must—do something about your nails."

Saya giggles, the sound aborted on an airless yelp when Solomon sucks on her earlobe, then bites it. Tumbling her backwards, he spreads her thighs, his body a taut arch over hers. Somehow Haji expected a more inventive position. Except it doesn't matter. The final act is underway, no bells or whistles required. Just the tableau of Solomon's and Saya's bodies, limned by the zebra-stripes of the blinds.

Black and white, and burning-hot.

Saya's sound when Solomon fills her is different. A silky sigh more than a hiccupping series of croons. Haji can see in her profile how she responds to the different fit, the different sensations. With him, it is always an incremental slide into delight. A little pause, a little push, allowing her time to absorb him fully. Allowing himself a moment to savor her exquisite heat and softness.

Solomon savors in a different way, exhaling a broken complexity of gasps. His expression is a twist of gratitude, nearly overcome. Then he is sinking completely into her, Saya flowing up to meet him, encompassing him in the span of her arms and legs. The proportions are different from when Haji shares this moment. Saya's ivory coloring and velvety black hair may run parallel to Haji's. But her physical shape is closer to Solomon's: a fine-boned delicacy that conceals an unexpected strength.

Haji watches them now. Their bodies fitting with different movements from his and Saya's. A breathless rocking, a teasing entanglement, her knees curled against his flanks, small hands starfished across his lower-back.

Saya's mouth is half-open, gasping, and her eyes are closed. Solomon's aren't. He has left off kissing and is watching her, a half-lidded and hungry gaze that Haji cannot fault him for. Both palms cradling her head, smoothing her damp cheekbones with his thumbs. Lowering his mouth to taste the arc of her neck, and to worship her breasts, bestowing lazy suckling kisses as if taking little sips from them. She sighs, a lovely sigh that unravels through her whole body.

Haji watches her desire build the same way, a slow-burning lassitude that folds into fire. Again, so different from when he is with her. A difference that is almost its own emotional alchemy. Between Saya and him, the passion always burns bright and primal. They make love the same way: a pure, ferocious, simple love that is blind to anything else.

With Solomon, she isn't that way. Can't be, because their history is devoid of childhood dreams and wartime regrets. With Solomon, her pleasure mixes with playfulness. Her gasps hold a pitch of delight, and she giggles when he murmurs to her—Solomon seems incapable of doing anything in silence—his words like the gold curlicues of his stupid hair, a ticklish brush across Saya skin, a poem in motion like their bodies.

Then Solomon's right arm slips between their bellies, his fingers dipping. It is a precursor to a different kind of poem, urgent and coaxing. Beneath him, Saya jerks, pulse spiking, her breath filling the air with ragged cries. Then they are no longer caught in a playful tangle but a ferocious tide of instinct, Solomon's hips succumbing to its pull, a low-down pummeling that makes Saya's eyes fly open, makes her surge beneath him, a sheen of sweat blossoming on her skin and her muscles quivering beneath. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, nails scraping at his skin. Solomon gasps but doesn't chide her. He is too busy kissing Saya, taking her cries, talking to her when his tongue is untied. No poetry, but the bluest filth, the sugar-coating stripped away so there is only the black and white stripes, and the cramping mattress springs, and the obscene slap of flesh on flesh.

Haji watches. His shape, both in and out of the shadows, feels trapped in the same indefinable way. Like something halfway between smoke and kindling.

Worse is the pressure inside his body: a pincering of all five senses, each one pulled towards Saya. Saya who is making him as wild as she is, her whole body rolling up beneath Solomon, demanding and imploring, and Solomon is gasping, taut as a bow, eyes squeezed shut and hips twisting as he pounds her into the mattress, struggling not to spend before she does.

 _A well-trained Chevalier,_ Haji thinks. Except his skin burns even as his suit clings to him with strange clamminess. His eyes fall shut at the high, desperate moans rising from Saya's throat, moans that hit a critical pitch, letting him know how close she is, lost in space and yet nearly home.

Nearly, and yet—

His eyes open, and he makes himself look. At Saya, who is looking right at him. Her head is flung back across the pillows. Solomon's is buried in the hollow of her neck and shoulder. Her eyes reflect shock; the half-lidded glaze that Haji recognizes, right when she is a hairsbreadth from the edge, her whole body vibrating with it, a pulsebeat in the center of chaos.

And yet, she holds herself there.

Waiting for him.

Something leaps through Haji's chest: shock, gratitude. His hands tremble. He wants to reach for her. Except that isn't keeping with tonight's rules. So instead he meets Saya with nothing but the connection of their gaze.

Holds it, and nods.

Something crosses Saya's face. Not a smile, exactly, but close. Then she arches, gasps, tosses her head back. Lets go, not like an unraveling but like fireworks, the heat of her burgeoning through the room, exploding with a bright waft of pheromones and high ragged cries, her whole body surging off the bed in defiance to gravity, shuddering beneath Solomon's weight.

Solomon chokes out a groan, half urging her on, half pleading for mercy. Haji feels sympathy but no snideness on that score. He knows from experience how it feels to be seized by her, ridden to ruin, the saddle of her strong-soft thighs and the hot clench of her body, sucking all sense, all sensation, all sanity.

Solomon can't resist anymore than Haji. He spends on a harsh strangled shout, his climax rippling through his body, reverberating through Saya's, and she takes him so sweetly, with stirring sighs and her mouth in the shape of a smile. Trembling, Solomon slumps against her. His back gleams under a layer of sweat, striped blinds reflecting off its surface. Black and white pooling into gray.

For a moment, they stay together, a frieze of satiation. Saya's fingers comb idly through Solomon's hair. The Chevalier looks unconscious. Or dead. Haji can't tell. Except his arms are still folded around Saya, cradling her close like he owes her his life.

Which he does. Him and Haji, both.

Haji lets them remain that way. Five minutes. Ten. His own body feels wedded to the couch. Aching with unspent desire, and an entire night's worth of stoppered tension. Then Saya's eyes meet his. The discomfort fades; he rises as if by command. Crosses to her bedside without sound.

Saya reaches out a small hand. Haji catches it, their fingers folding, and kneels. Solomon's spent carcass is easy to ignore in favor of her smile, sloe-eyed and soft.

"All right?" he says.

"I should be asking you that," she whispers. Meaningfully, "Are you?"

He nods.

It is the best he can manage, given the ambivalence still churning in his stomach. Yet tonight wasn't the ordeal he dreaded. Not when his reward is this: Saya's nearness, and the warmth of her fingers, and the glimmer of her eyes.

Then Solomon stirs, and nuzzles Saya's shoulder. "Mmm."

She lets off a giggle. "Welcome back."

"I think I passed out for a minute."

"Longer." Saya smooths his hair with her free hand. "We counted."

"Oh?" His gaze passes to Haji. The adoration is displaced by mockery. "Did the warden set a timer?"

Ordinarily, Haji would roll his eyes. But his mood is uncharacteristically mellow. The surface jealousy, accrued over the years, is absent. There is only understanding, passed from beneath his façade of half-lidded hauteur to Solomon's own mask of genial glibness. A mask that has melted in Saya's radioactive glow. Haji can't fathom what it means, except that they are both equal now, and equally bound to her.

He watches as Solomon combs Saya's hair back with both hands. Her face is dappled with blushes, a picture of debauched loveliness. He and Solomon can't help but admire her.

"Look at her," Solomon murmurs. "A vision."

"A miracle."

Saya's blush becomes a full-bodied simmer. "Stop it."

"Oh? Would you rather we duel over you instead?"

"Don't even start."

Dizzy, she tries to sit up. But Solomon's arms fold snugly around her. _Clingy_ , Haji thinks, but doesn't say.

"I—I need to wash," Saya stammers.

"So soon?" Solomon's smile is deceptively angelic. "But the moon has barely risen _._ "

"What's that got to do with— _mphhh_."

He kisses her soundly. Turns his body to enfold her against his side. Saya flows against him on a half-hearted purl. But the fingers of her right hand stay tangled with Haji's. He kisses them, as Solomon kisses her throat. Saya shivers, mumbling about her shower again. But her racing pulse imparts its own secrets.

Haji smiles inside. The bed is nearly too narrow for three. But it will serve.

Moonlight slants through the blinds of the bedroom. It cuts ten glowing stripes across Saya, before she is engulfed by the heavy drape of his and Solomon's bodies. By cool kisses and hot caresses in perfect pitch to her cries, each one rising and falling like a difference in key signatures, major and minor.

Black and white.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title of this tale - Saya Otonashi: Master Manipulator of Two Dumb Chevaliers.
> 
> Review, pretty please :)


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